Wolf's Blood
by Freya Ishtar
Summary: *Post-War* When Hermione takes in an infant who turns out to be a werewolf, she thinks keeping the child's secret from her boyfriend Draco is her biggest headache. That is, until Fenrir comes searching for his daughter, and scent tells him finding her will reunite him with someone he's been dying to see since that long-ago day in Malfoy Manor. (triad/poly-fic) SPORADIC UPDATES
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes** **:**

 **1)** Follows canon up to the end of the Second Wizarding War.

 **2)** Pairing is Dramione AND Fenmione, and MAY end up involving some Fenrir/Draco scenes, but whether this story will be just a poly fic, or a full triad, will be determined as the story goes along.

 **3)** Chapter lengths may vary wildly. Some may be close to 5k words, some may not even make 2k. I have learned not to force, or curtail, chapters based on word counts, because that can stall creativity and kill motivation. Updates will be sporadic.

 ** Fenrir Greyback Fancast:** Jason Momoa

* * *

 **Disclaimer :** I do not own _Harry Potter,_ or any affiliated characters and make no profit, in any form, from this story.

* * *

 **Chapter One**

Hermione halted, midstride. Her eyes flashing wide, she tilted her head and listened. She could not _possibly_ have heard what she thought she had—she was in the middle of a bloody forest for pity's sake!

Just as she was ready to dismiss the first sound as nothing more than her imagination, she heard it again. The cry of an infant, clear as a bell!

In utter disbelief, she turned her head to scan her surroundings. She'd encountered no one else as she combed the thickly wooded area for some of the rarer potions ingredients—Draco might be the one serving in the post of Potions professor, but he was terrible in natural environments. She suspected he'd still not gotten over their first year adventure with Hagrid in the Forbidden Forest. But not another soul had she come across out here; not another witch or wizard in a similar pursuit, nor a single Muggle hiker.

She heard it again. Furrowing her brow, she started toward the sound.

She wound around thick brush and through trees, circling a massive hill . . . . Until the sound drew her to the base of that hill. The entrance was nearly blocked by yet more brush, but it was a natural growth, not something placed deliberately to obscure the hollow that led inside.

Narrowing her eyes in suspicion, she illuminated her wand and headed in. If this turned out to be some monster that mimicked the sound of a baby's cry to lure its victims, it would be _sorry_!

She made her way along a narrow passage, bracing when the pocked walls around her bloomed outward into a full-blown cavern. Her shoulders slumped and the tension drained out of her as she looked about and found no monster, at all.

But there _was_ a wriggly bundle against the far wall, set on what looked like a hastily thrown together bed of leaves, grass and other forest debris.

"Oh, God!"

As she hurried toward the bizarre little nest, she tried to make sense of what she was seeing. There were no supplies here, nothing that suggested anyone else was here, or had been here. She'd hoped that some vagabond making their home in the woods had simply stepped away to . . . bathe, or hunt, perhaps. Hell, she'd roughed it for a near-year when necessity demanded it, who was she to judge if someone was stuck raising their child in such a place?

Yet, there were no other signs of a grown person staying here. No matter how she looked at it, it seemed someone had simply placed this child in here and walked away. How disgustingly _barbaric_!

The bundle cried again while she lowered herself to her knees and set aside her wand. "Okay, okay," she said, her voice gentle and sing-song as she reached shaking fingers toward the weighty swaddle of fabric.

She was nervous as hell, and quite sure if she didn't get a grip, the child would pick up on it, so she continued speaking in a soft tone as she slid her hands beneath the baby and lifted it from the nest. "It's all right, nothing to be scared of, little one. I'm just your . . . friendly forest witch, coming to check on you." She winced at her own choice of words, grateful the little thing wasn't old enough to understand her—an abandoned Muggle child would probably be even more terrified of their situation, were they to wake up and hear they'd been found by 'a witch.'

Shifting to sit cross-legged, she settled the bundle in her lap. Hermione smoothed back a loose end of the blanket and a wealth of dark, gleaming curls that seemed unfair for one so young to have. And she braced herself for a panicked scream from the child when they saw an unfamiliar face—God, the child was a few months old, did they even recognize faces this early? She had no idea!—but it never came. Instead, the button-nosed little thing crinkled impossibly dark blue eyes up at her and let out a giggle.

Oh, it was as though someone reached in and punched her right in the heart!

Before she really knew what she was doing, Hermione hugged the child to her. "Oh, my poor little thing! Who in their right mind could abandon _you_?"

She already knew what she had to do. But . . . . No, no. She had to bring this child to some sort of agency, or a hospital, but . . . . Wasn't the Muggle 'system' supposed to be atrocious? No fit place for a child and all that? A hospital would have to report the infant to the police, who'd call in an agency and _bam_ , child in the system!

Sooner than she could really think to stop herself, she pocketed her wand and climbed to her feet with the child in her arms. "Well, until I can think of a suitable alternative, you'll just . . . have to come with me. It'll . . . it'll be fine," she said as she pivoted on her heel and started out of the cavern.

Pausing for barely a heartbeat, she looked inside the bundle. "Well, at least it's a relief you don't need to be changed, yet, little lady." Carrying around a sopping wet and uncomfortable infant, she imagined, would only make this entire scenario more nerve-rattling for them, both.

* * *

The freshly killed deer tossed over his shoulder and a bota bag full of milk he'd scavenged from a farm on the edge of the forest dangling from his hip, Fenrir made his way back toward the cave. He expected she'd be awake by now, but he didn't hear her crying, so perhaps she was still . . . .

A scent winding the forest near the cave's obscured entrance caught his attention. But he dismissed it. He'd not encountered this scent in, what? Five years, now? Yes, yes, just his imagination.

Yet, the closer he got to the entrance, the stronger the scent became. How was this even possible? Holding in a curious animal sound, he dropped the deer to the ground and all but tore the stupid bloody tree out of his way as he barreled into the cave.

" _Frigga?!_ "

Her bed was empty . . . . In disbelief, he crossed to the nest, anyway, tossing aside the leaves and brush—as though he expected to find her hiding beneath a blinking blade of grass, or something! He knew he shouldn't have brought her here, this forest was so closely edged by human towns, Muggle and Wizard, alike, but with the full moon so close, he'd had little choice.

Anger and worry mixed in his gut as he raked his fingers through his hair, trying to figure what to do.

Then he remembered . . . . This scent was here. It was everywhere . . . . Lowering his face toward the destroyed bed of leaves, he took a deep, long sniff.

Laughing at the strange irony, he spoke with a growl edging his words. "Oh, I don't know _how_ you did this, Mudblood, but I'm coming for you."

* * *

Hermione hadn't felt quite comfortable having to take the baby out of the forest on foot, but she could hardly Apparrate with the little girl in her arms. She had no idea what that disorienting type of magical travel might do to an infant.

She thought it was at least fortunate that the blanket was nondescript and clean-looking. She wouldn't get any funny looks from passersby for, say, toting around a baby some bedraggled mess of fabric. It probably seemed unusual enough that she didn't have a carriage for the child.

She just needed to get some supplies for the baby and get home . . . .

It was a dreadfully long walk from the entrance of the woodland park to her neighborhood, but to her surprise, the girl didn't fuss. She thought perhaps the baby simply liked the motion of being carried about. Oh, but she wasn't as light as she looked. Hermione found she had to stop more than once and shift the child's weight in her arms.

After what seemed far too long, she reached the shopfronts the preceded her block. Holding in a sigh—this was a shop her parents frequented, too. Bloody hell. She'd need to come up with answers, quick, if she came across any familiar faces.

. . . . Which she did the moment she set foot inside. Old Mr. Mullens—good Lord, she couldn't believe he was still alive, let alone working!—was behind the register. His kind, wrinkled face lit up the moment he saw her.

Maybe this was a good thing. The man was easily a great-grandfather, he might know what was best to get the child.

"Miss Hermione!" Mr. Mullens rounded the counter, his eyes immediately on the bundle in the young woman's arms. But no sooner did he reach her than did give her a suspicious once-over. "This wouldn't happen to be _your_ baby, now would it?"

The witch counted her blessings that the sound of disbelief she sputtered sounded so very genuine. The child, with her sleek jet curls and her golden-olive skin, looked nothing like Hermione. "Of _course_ , not! No, Mr. Mullens, a friend of mine had an emergency and asked that I watch her daughter. But she was in such a mad rush, she literally forgot to leave the baby's things with me. I was hoping you could point me in the right direction for . . . diapers and milk and the like."

"And what might this little lady's name be?" he asked as he expertly dodged the infant's attempt to grab at his bulbous nose—in only the way a grandfatherly-type could. It was clear from the sparkle in the old man's eyes that he'd played this game many times before.

Hermione spit out the first baby girl's name that popped to mind. "Elora."

He laughed. "Like in _Willow_? 'S my daughter's favorite film!"

Relieved, she nodded. _Oh, he's buying this!_ Then again, she realized he had no real reason to question a word that left her mouth. "Exactly like in _Willow_. It's her mother's favorite film, too!"

Mr. Mullens grinned widely, crinkling the bridge of his nose at the baby—who giggled and made another sloppy grab for his face. "Well, now, Miss Elora, let's get you sorted, shall we? C'mon this way."

Smiling, Hermione followed him through the shop.

* * *

By the time she arrived home, she didn't know what weighed her down more, the infant she'd been carrying for what seemed hours, now, or the shopping bags loaded with diapers, infant formula, bottles, 'first stage' baby food—AKA multi-coloured pureed mush—and a few multi-packs of onesies. Pink and lilac onesies, because _Elora_ was a little girl, after all, and Mr. Mullens refused to let the witch purchase any _un_ feminine colours for the child.

Slamming the living room door shut behind her, Hermione dropped the bags and pressed her back against the wood. Slipping down to sit on the floor, she held Elora in her lap.

After a moment to catch her breath, she nodded. Though she was an impossibly good baby—not a peep out of her so far, except to laugh when she'd managed to catch Mr. Mullens by the tuft of hair peeking out of his right ear—Hermione knew it wouldn't be long before hunger or a soiled diaper turned this child into a right little hellion.

"All right, you," she said as she lay the baby on the floor, grateful for the thick, soft carpet, and then tore open the pack of diapers. "Let's get you changed and fed, yeah?"

* * *

Draco shook his head as he made his way up the front steps of Hermione's building. She bloody well knew he wasn't comfortable coming here! He was . . . _okay_ with Muggles, now, but he still didn't feel wholly at ease in the Muggle-side of town, as he called it.

Just as he was reached the intercom—and was about to press the button on the infernal thing—the couple who lived across the hall from Granger were coming through the front door. He flashed them an awkward grin as they allowed him inside.

They seemed nice enough people . . . he was just grateful they'd never invited him and Hermione over to their place, or anything like that. He still had no idea how to handle Muggle small-talk, let alone dinnertime chat.

Sighing and shaking his head—this was what he got for falling in love with a bloody a Muggleborn, after all—he wound up the staircase toward her flat on the second floor. She was going to be sorry for making him come all this way. The woman was supposed to have met up with him in Diagon Alley an hour ago!

He scowled. Perhaps he should go easy on her. After all, she'd been out gathering potions ingredients for _him_ , maybe time had simply gotten away from her, and of course she'd probably had to stop home to clean up after running around the ruddy wilds all day.

His shoulders slumping, Draco laughed at himself. She'd gone and broken him, hadn't she?

Knocking, he called through the door, "Granger? You home?"

For a moment, no response came. After _just_ long enough to make him think she wasn't home, he heard, "Draco?" She sounded oddly—suspiciously—surprised.

"You expecting someone else?"

"No, of course not!"

His eyes narrowed as he stared at the door. He thought he heard rustling and scrambling on the other side, as though she was hurrying to put things away. "Then let me—"

The door opened before he could finish the sentence, but Hermione only poked out her head. "I know I was supposed to meet you, I'm so sorry. But, um, raincheck? Something's come up that I really can't—"

"What's going on Granger?"

"One of my friends had an emergency, asked me to watch her baby tonight."

He arched a brow. Bloody hell, too much time with Pansy when he was younger had him suspicious of every woman he'd dated ever since. "Really?"

With a roll of her eyes, she opened the door wider. There in her arms was, indeed, an infant in one of those weird baby-shirts.

"I'm so sorry," she said, again. "Everything happened so fast—one minute I was out gathering your ingredients, the next, I was home with this little one in my arms." _Wow_ , she'd actually managed to explain without a single false word tumbling from her lips.

"Okay, yeah." Draco nodded, looking from her to the baby and back. "Um, tomorrow night?"

Hermione's eyes shot wide, but she quickly covered it, instead turning her attention on shifting Elora's weight in her arms. She didn't know what she'd do about the baby in the next twenty-four hours—there was every chance she'd still have her adorable little charge by then, as Elora really had nowhere else to go—but if she didn't agree, Draco would question things.

She'd figure out _something_ , she always did.

"Yeah, o' course. Tomorrow night sounds good."

Pursing his lips, he held her gaze as he suggested, "I could help you, watch her, maybe?"

The witch gasped, her heart skipping a beat at his abrupt offer. But he tended to not leave until the next morning when he came over, and she couldn't imagine explaining to him, 'oh, well, yes, of course this child I'm unexpectedly watching for a friend who's name I've not even mentioned has to stay overnight, too!' . . . Because _that_ wouldn't seem strange.

She smirked and nodded at the baby, who was trying to reach for Draco's pale hair. "I'm not sure you'd like that. This little charmer's a Muggle baby, I'm afraid," she said in a secretive whisper.

His brows drew upward and he backpedaled half a step. "Oh. Then maybe you're right."

She feigned a scoffing sound. This was exactly the response she was hoping for from him, but she couldn't show that. He knew it still bothered her that he wasn't comfortable around Muggles, but it bothered her more when he hid things from her—even if that thing was how uncomfortable he was around Muggles.

"Draco Malfoy!" Hermione shook her head at him. "What are you going to do if we have children someday and one of them happens to be a Muggle? There's no guarantee our offspring would be wizards or witches, you know."

He puffed out his cheeks and exhaled as he shrugged. "Well, I suppose I would—"

"They'd be a Squib, technically then, wouldn't they? What do you think of that?"

"I would love them from a distance."

Hermione burst out laughing in spite of herself. He was only lucky she could tell he was joking from the way one corner of his mouth curved upward ever so slightly. "You're a terrible man!"

Snickering, he leaned in, kissing her as boldly as he dared with the baby staring at them the whole bloody time. "Serves you right for falling in love with a terrible man."

"Mm-hmm, I suppose it does. And I will see that terrible man tomorrow night, yeah?"

Biting his lip, he nodded as he started walking backward through the corridor. "Yeah. You sure you don't need help?"

"I'm sure, but it means a lot that you offered."

Nodding again, he smiled. "G'night, Granger."

"G'night, Malfoy." After she watched him disappear into the stairwell, she closed her door and locked it.

With a sigh, she looked down at Elora. If she didn't know any better, she'd think the baby girl—yes, the one currently trying to grab at her lips as though she could pluck them off the witch's face—was giving her a scolding expression.

"Oh, yeah, Missy? What was I supposed to do, tell him I found you abandoned in a forest and brought you home? He'd think I've gone mad."

"Pfffffft,"Elora sputtered in response before letting out a giggle.

Shaking her head, Hermione laughed. "Easy for you to say. All right, bath and bed. We can do this!"

Retrieving her wand from where she'd dropped it when they'd first come in, she concentrated. With a wave and a flick of the instrument, she pointed to the nearby end table. Though she winced as the polished wood groaned and shifted, eventually the piece of furniture shaped itself into a cradle.

She let out a sigh and nodded. With another flick, she lifted the cradle from the floor and directed it through her open bedroom door.

In the bathroom moments later, she sat on the floor and laid a towel before her on which to place Elora. Now that they were winding down for the night—and she imagined the baby would have her up a few times before her alarm woke her in the morning, and oh dear _Lord_ , she would have to call out sick tomorrow!—she was _exhausted_.

Swallowing a yawn, she started the tub and turned her attention to undressing the baby. "Wow. I can't imagine how full-time mothers do this. I've been a mum for barely half a day and I swear I'm ready to fall asleep sitting up!"

Only after the words had fallen from her lips, and the baby had grabbed hold of her fingers, making her aware how tiny Elora's chubby little hands were, did Hermione realize what she'd said.

An uncertain smile playing on her lips, she scooped the baby up, holding her so they were eye-level. "I don't know if that would work out at all, but . . . _maybe_ it could?" There seemed something special about this little girl. Hermione couldn't put her finger on it, but she nearly felt as though she and Elora had bonded, already. " _Maybe_ I could be your mum."

Making a cooing sound, Elora grabbed hold of Hermione's nose.

Though she laughed at the gesture, Hermione was as warmed by her own notion as she was terrified by it. Her? A mum?

Oh, there was _no_ way she was ready for this!

* * *

Fenrir reached the edge of the forest, frowning as Hermione Granger's scent drifted toward the Muggle town, where it would undoubtedly be swallowed up by the other smells of the city and _people_. Frowning, he let his gaze wander the street in the direction her scent trailed.

He stroked his beard in thought. It would be difficult, yes, but _not_ wholly impossible to track the Mudblood.

Holding in a growl, he started toward that dreadfully paved area. He didn't hold much hope that he'd find them tonight, but he'd get a lead and that would have to do.

The full moon was in two days. He needed to move fast, or the witch was going to make a _very_ startling realization about the child she'd stolen.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"So you just . . . took in a child? Hermione! What were you thinking?"

Hermione winced, knowing better than to pull away as her mother checked her for a fever. "Honestly, Mum. What else was I to do? I can't just hand her over to people who might stick her in some terrible place or give her to someone who might hurt her."

She knew the woman had every right to be concerned. Hermione had phoned her in something of a panic, begging her to come over and not ask any questions. And, when she'd answered the door, she was perfectly aware of how tired she looked. Elora'd had her up every few hours to eat, or be changed, or just reach a tiny fist out from her be-spelled cradle and tug at the witch's hair whilst giggling manically like some adorable little gremlin.

"Okay, fine, but you've _got_ to know this is a bad idea." Dahlia Granger shrugged. "Even if this was the right thing to do, you've still got to ask yourself 'what next?' She's safe, now. She's cared for, but you can't just keep a child you found somewhere, Hermione."

"I know, Mum. I've no idea what I'll do tomorrow or the next day. I'm trying to just focus on the day at hand." Hermione gave a shrug of her own, yawning. "I just need you to watch her for a few hours while I meet Draco."

"Can't believe you haven't even told him about this."

"Yes, because my pure-blood wizard boyfriend from the most elitist family in all of Britain would be totally okay and helpful about me taking in an abandoned Muggle infant. He was barely okay with it when he only thought I was watching her for a friend! Besides," she tacked on with an awkward grin, "I thought you wanted a grandchild."

Dahlia scowled. "Look, if some day you and Draco decide to have children, I'd be ecstatic, yes. But this is . . . not at all what I was expecting."

Folding her arms under her breasts, Hermione nodded. "Wait, so you've finally let go of the getting married idea?"

With a pained grin, Dahlia spread her hands in front of her. "Draco's parents already have a . . . unique-enough opinion of Muggles. I hardly think them witnessing the spectacle that is your Aunt Yvonne at any event with an open bar is going to improve future familial relations any."

The witch uttered a surprised laugh at that. But no sooner had she relaxed then did Elora make known that she'd awoken from her nap.

Her expression sobering, Dahlia stood from the corner of the sofa where she'd perched. "So, now, let me see this sweet little bundle who's put those bags under your eyes."

* * *

Fenrir grinned. After roving the streets all night, he felt he'd finally picked up a steady thread of the Mudblood's scent. And yes, Frigga's was entwined with hers.

As he neared a Muggle shopfront, he frowned. Dear Merlin, she'd brought his daughter here? Well, time to see what this was about.

He entered the establishment, aware the old man behind the counter was eyeing him warily. Really, it would be fun—and so easy—to dispatch him, but Fenrir knew it wouldn't serve any purpose beyond that.

Nodding and forcing a pleasant smile onto his lips, the werewolf gave himself a moment to determine where her scent had gone in here. She'd been in this place last night. Luckily, this shop didn't have such a high volume of costumers that her scent had been buried.

He followed it across the floor and down an aisle. He wasn't sure what he felt to find himself coming to a halt before a selection of items intended to clean, feed, or dress an infant.

His jaw fell a bit. The Mudblood hadn't stolen his daughter, not knowingly or willfully, anyway—she was taking care of her. He thought she wouldn't realize the threat Frigga posed because born werewolves weren't accounted for in Wizarding texts, but this . . . ? Had she simply stumbled across their hiding place? Could this really have been a coincidence?

Could she really not be aware the child she'd taken in was _his_?

Backpedaling with a shake of his head, he retreated. Before he knew it, he was back out on the pavement in front of the shop. This was . . . oh, fuck, he didn't even know how to process this.

Anger he was used to. When he'd thought she'd knowingly tracked him and stolen Frigga, he was happy to set aside the possessive streak Hermione Granger had always inspired in him if it meant tearing her limb from limb to get his daughter back. But now? Knowing _this_?

Smothering a growling sound that was edged with uncertainty, he snapped his head side-to-side, cracking the vertebra in his neck. His rage was dissipating, but now, in it's place, something he couldn't quite identify was growing.

Something sparked by the thought of her, this witch he'd wanted from the moment he'd met her, mothering his child . . . .

Whatever this feeling might be, she was still _only_ that—a witch. Not one of their kind, and Frigga still posed a threat she couldn't possibly understand.

His broad shoulders drooped as he returned to searching for their scents among the tangle of smells out in the open city streets. If he didn't find them before tomorrow night's moon, he'd have to hide somewhere, himself, until it passed—he'd never get close enough to them if he called attention to himself with a full moon slaughter in the witch's own neighborhood.

Hide, and pray that, as young as she was, his daughter retained the first, simplest lesson he'd been trying to teach her. For her own protection.

And—now—for the Mudblood's.

* * *

"You're joking! You're still babysitting?"

Hermione tipped her head back and sighed as she walked beside Draco through Diagon Alley, their hands clasped. Mum had fallen into little bits of overprotective love the moment she'd looked into the cradle. Not that the younger woman could very well blame her. Elora had been sitting up, her tumble of gleaming jet curls spilling all over the place, and those enormous dark eyes of her blinking up at them.

The woman who'd been so stern moments earlier devolved almost entirely into a series of cooing noises and infantile giggles as she scooped Elora right up, as though the child had been the thing missing from her hip since Hermione'd outgrown being carried around like that.

Then, just as she found herself smiling at the scene the pair made, Mum snapped her head right around to lock her gaze on her daughter's.

 _"Just this once!"_

 _"Oh!" Hermione's eyes shot wide as she reached over, righting a wrinkle in the sleeve of the baby's sleepshirt. "I'll try not to ask for anymore help unless I really—"_

 _"I meant . . . ." With a light shrug, Dahlia's expression softened. "Until you get this situation with her sorted. If you find some way to keep her—_ legally _—then you'd better call me for frequent babysitting."_

She met Draco's gaze fleetingly. "Technically my mother is babysitting. And unfortunately, I . . . I haven't heard back from Elora's mum." Well, that was sort of true, if she neglected to mention that she'd never spoken to the woman in the first place, and didn't even know who she was. "I knew when I agreed to watch her that it might be a while. Family emergencies can be tricky that way. Muggles can't just Apparrate all over the place, you know. When they have to go from one place to another, it's actually quite time consuming."

When she stopped for a breath, Draco pulled her to a halt. Using his hand on hers, he turned her to face him. "Little bundle of non-magical joy had you up all night, didn't she?"

She couldn't help but snicker as she shook her head. She hated lying to him, but if she confided in him and then she got in trouble for this, he could get in trouble just for knowing about it and not doing . . . well, something.

Her brows pinched together as she asked, "How can you tell?"

He sighed. "Because you only do that thing where you talk so fast your words run together when you're excited or very, very tired."

The witch pursed her lips as she watched him lift her hand to his mouth, brushing a kiss along her knuckles. "You know me so well, don't you?"

Draco's pale eyes rolled in thought while he nodded. "I do, don't I? It's almost as though I'm your boyfriend, or something."

She smiled as they started walking, again. "Can we stop by the bookshop?"

Chuckling, he said, "Don't we always?"

"No, no. I mean . . . I'd like to see what sort of books they have that I can read to Elora. I mean, they'd be Wizarding fairytales rather than Muggle ones, but some of them carry over."

"Sure. I suppose that makes sense. How long do you think you might have her?"

Hermione bit the inside of her lip as she made a thoughtful humming sound. Bloody hell, he was going to push her into making up details about this imaginary friend, though she supposed a story about that imaginary friend simply walking away from her life would have to be created eventually, anyway, if _any_ of this was to work.

"Not sure. Possibly a few days. Depends on how her mother's flights—Muggle air transport, I've told you 'bout that before?"

"I remember, Granger."

"Right, well, depends on what's going on and what sort of travel she can arrange for. Might actually be a few days." She ignored an uneasy quiver in the pit of her stomach. "Why?"

"I thought maybe we could . . . do something together. The three of us. I mean, if she's still with you this weekend."

A curious, if uncertain, smile curving her lips, this time it was Hermione who pulled him to a halt. Pivoting to stand in front of him, she asked again, "Why?"

The wizard shrugged. "Well, I know I wasn't very helpful last night, but then I got to thinking about it. We always talk about the future. What if we have children, what if we don't? What if we . . . go on a murder spree and have to live on the run?"

She shook her finger at him. "Told you that last one is a possibility only if you make me attend another Sunday brunch with your parents."

Draco chuckled shaking his head. "Anyway, what I was saying was if someday, we do decide to have children, we could sort of treat the day like a test run."

Unable to help herself, Hermione threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tight. "Back in Hogwarts I'd never have imagined you could be so sweet!"

Laughing harder, he returned her embrace. "Think if you'd told me back in Hogwarts that I'd grow up to be this 'sweet', as you call it, I'd have just laid there and let that bleeding curse kill me."

Pulling back, she slapped his chest. "You're ridiculous. But it's a great idea. I love it." Maybe, just maybe, if he ended up as enamored of the child as she and her mother already were, he wouldn't be quite so upset with her if the truth came out at some point.

She didn't want it to come to that, ever, but she also knew she couldn't give up Elora. Just a day and a half that little girl had been in her life, and already she had hooks in the witch's heart.

"I should get home early tonight. I did sort of drop this on my mum. She might not have the energy."

Draco winced as he started walked them toward Flourish and Blotts, once more. "Your mother run ragged and helpless as the baby runs . . . crawls amok about your flat? I'm loathe to think on what you're going to find when you get there."

* * *

As though the fates, themselves, had been listening, when Hermione returned from Diagon Alley, loaded down with baby books and age-appropriate toys—both Muggle and Wizarding—she found her mother asleep on the sofa. Her head tipped back against the cushion, her mouth was open in a series of soft snores.

Elora was cradled on her lap, dozing as well, but starting to stir. For a moment, she wondered if somehow the baby'd sensed she was back.

Smiling, she set down her bags and crossed the floor. She scooped the child into her arms, moving carefully so as not to jostle her mum awake.

"Hello, little lady. Did you miss me?"

She'd take the giggle and the way Elora mushed her cheeks with her tiny hands as a _yes_.

"Mum?" she started softly. "Mum? I'm home."

Dahlia blinked rapidly a few times as she lifted her head. "Wha—? I'm up! I'm . . . oh, Hermione. How was your night?"

Smirking, Hermione started swaying, rocking Elora on her hip as she spoke. "Pretty nice, actually. Got a bunch of books and other fun things for this little one." She noticed her mother's expression, the way Dahlia's brows pinched together as she watched the two of them together. "What is it, Mum?"

Dahlia smiled, blinking again, this time to keep some tears at bay. Her daughter had no idea how beautiful a moment this seemed.

"Nothing, I just . . . I think I was wrong."

"About what?"

Her mother's grin only widened as she said, " _This_. I don't know how, but I think you should try to make this—make you and Elora—work."

Hermione hadn't even realized she'd been so invested in that thought, already, until Dahlia had said that. Sniffling, she felt tears well in her own eyes as she nodded.

If there was a way to make this work out, she _would_ find it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Thankfully, the next morning was a Friday, and Hermione was able to argue her way into handling her workload by Floo—the wizarding version of working from home—by claiming a personal emergency. It was _technically_ true, but she did feel a bit of anxiety over the fact that she had to stretch the truth like this, at all. She was no closer to figuring out what to do about Elora than she'd been the night before, either.

Honestly, her own actions tempted her to bat her forehead against the nearest wall. In her heart, she knew there was something going on at a level she couldn't quite comprehend, something natural and perfect in the way she and this infant were with each other. Intellectually, she knew there was no way to explain that without sounding like she'd gone 'round the bend. She'd thought the emotional argument proved by her mother, of all people, softening on the idea of her finding a way to keep the child just from spending a few hours with her, but even that was hardly any sort of tangible evidence.

Hermione paced before her cold, unused fireplace as she waited for her workload to appear.

Even if things could continue this way—which she very well understood they couldn't—there was no sort of plan for what to do with Elora in the days after this weekend had come and gone.

Halting her pacing, she snatched up her coffee mug from the mantle and tipped it back, only to find she'd already drained it, entirely. With a sigh, she turned on her heel and returned to the kitchen to pour another cup. She loved having that child in her life, already. The fact that her own actions regarding said child had her doubting her own intellect—as though she suddenly wasn't one of the brightest witches to ever graduate Hogwarts? Not so much love for _that_ aspect of this entire mess, no.

And last night was odder than the first night. Shaking her head, she added a little sugar and stirred, still just a bit groggy enough to get mesmerized by the glinting of the dark, swirling liquid under the sunlight through the nearby window.

Giving herself a good shake, now, she lifted the mug for a long, centering series of sips. The first night, Elora hadn't made a peep except to be fed or changed. Last night, however, the little tot seemed to be having some very odd dreams. Hermione dreaded to call it what it was, but for lack of a more fitting description, the girl had been yipping in her sleep. Like . . . like a puppy excited at seeing birds fly past a window!

She chewed at her lower lip, fretting a little. Everything she'd seen from Elora had seemed perfectly healthy and natural for a growing infant. If anything, she thought possibly Elora was a bit better behaved than any of her cousins' children. Even Teddy had been a comparative nightmare on the rare occasion she'd helped Harry babysit after the War.

It made her worry. Was there something . . . wrong with Elora? Was that why she'd been abandoned? Oh, she didn't condone the action no matter what the parents' motivation had been, but she understood some people could be thoughtlessly cruel in their reactions to such things.

The sudden whooshing sound of her paperwork appearing in a burst of magical green flames made her jump as she stepped back into the living room. She just barely refrained from spilling her coffee down her shirt.

Her shoulders slumping, she crossed to the fireplace and set her mug back upon the mantle. She scooped up the armful of scrolls and folders, sighing. It was more than her imagination that her workload seemed a bit heavier than usual, she thought.

As Hermione straightened up and turned toward the desk tucked in a corner of the room, she heard Elora kicking up a fuss from the bedroom.

She let her head drop forward as she uttered a groan. "Of bloody course," she muttered under her breath as she trudged across the floor to set the stack atop her desk.

She adored this little girl, but she thought she might just _finally_ understand what she'd put her own poor mother through twenty-four years prior.

* * *

Fenrir was groggy as he came to, curled up in the corner of some dank little alley. Climbing to his feet, he stretched, smoothed his hands down over his hair and then patted himself down, making sure the unseemly rest didn't make him too horrible a sight for the Muggles passing on the street to behold. Last thing he needed right now would be some ruddy Muggle authorities called on him for looking like a monster coming out of an alleyway.

That it was, in fact, _exactly_ what was happening as he stepped out into the street beneath the bright, late morning sunshine, was hardly the point.

Nothing mattered except remaining unhindered from his pursuit of Frigga and the Mudblood. Tonight was the full moon. He'd felt its closeness pulling at him, already, as he slept.

Shaking his head, he closed his eyes and took a long sniff of the awful city air. Ruddy Muggles every bloody where, even here, where he understood it was a 'quiet neighborhood.'

At last picking the familiar scents from the tangle of smells winding the mild breezes, he started off, again.

* * *

Hermione closed the door to the bedroom as silently as she could. She didn't know how she'd pulled it off, but somehow, she had managed to make it through her workload and handle Elora. That she got the child down for bed early just as Draco was supposed to pop over for a late dinner seemed nothing short of a miracle.

The sigh of relief she breathed as she plastered her back against the wall beside the door was short lived as a knock sounded from her front door. Not as though she wasn't expecting him, but a few seconds to collect herself would've been fantastic.

Pulling away from the wall, she dragged her tired limbs down the short corridor to the living room. "Just a second," she said as she gave her body a shake.

Grasping the knob, she opened the door to find him standing there, some bags from that restaurant she fancied down the street dangling from one hand.

Tired as she was, Hermione covered her mouth with her hands to stifle a sound of shock.

Draco grinned. "I figured between work and the baby, you were probably running around like a mad woman today."

She let her fingers slip down from her mouth just enough to speak. "You, Draco Malfoy, did something as . . . as 'Muggle' as getting takeaway?"

"Well," he said with a shrug, "I _can_ be thoughtful once every few years, or so."

Snickering, she greeted him with a kiss and stepped aside for him to enter. "Elora's asleep, let's try not to wake her."

* * *

He was so close! He could feel it! Fenrir could swear he was right on the edge of locating them, just a few more yards . . . .

But the moon.

It was _too_ close. If he tried to stay out here like this even long enough to figure out which building it was, there would be no telling what could happen. He'd definitely shift, definitely wreak havoc . . . and potentially lose the chance to find them, at all.

Maybe it would be fine, he thought, as he grudgingly secured himself in the basement of the nearest building. Casting a silencing charm and fortifying the walls, doors, and windows with a flick of his wand, he tossed on the added measure of weaving a deterrent into his wards, diverting anyone who might think to come down here. Merlin, he hated being this careful and paranoid, especially when it came to acts that would inadvertently protect humans, but he had to say he didn't hate Muggles quite as much as he hated wizards. Muggles didn't even believe his kind existed . . . how sad that _that_ was better than the way they were treated by wizarding kind.

He tucked way the implement behind a battered old sofa. Grumbling under his breath, he breathed deep. _This_ was it. Moonrise. Even shielded from direct sight of the night sky, he could sense it. Fenrir started stripping down, aware he didn't have many options left to him if he shredded the clothes on his back.

Praying fate would be kind on whatever happened with his daughter tonight, he waited for the change to overtake him.

* * *

Hermione pulled away, letting out a shivering breath as she opened her eyes. Dinner had been wonderful, and they'd sat on the sofa chatting . . . which always led to other things, and she just didn't have it in her to go any further than a kiss, under the circumstances. She could already tell what he was going to say by the way his brows pinched together.

"I'm sorry, I just can't." She shook her head, frowning. "It just feels too awkward with the baby here—"

"Sleeping, in the next room, behind a closed door," he said, a disbelieving laugh edging his words.

Pushing him back, she sat up. "I know, I know. I said I'm sorry, and I _am_! Look, I'm just not quite used to this. It feels too weird."

His shoulders moving with a heavy sigh, Draco nodded. "All right, all right. I suppose I understand. . . . Any chance we could drop her with your mum at the last minute?"

The witch snickered as she stood and started for the kitchen to set another pot of coffee to brew. "No, we can't. My parents have a date-night every Friday."

"Oh, that's just adorable," he said with a smile. "Think we'll be like that when we're old?"

She uttered a scoffing sound from the other room as she puttered about filling the carafe and setting up the filter. "My parents aren't old, Draco. But that aside, what do you mean?"

He shrugged, sitting back on the sofa and stretching out his legs. "You know? If some day we'll do stuff like that. What is it Muggles call it? Keeping the magic alive? God, it's funny how they toss magic into so many statements when they don't even believe in it."

Popping her head back into the room, she smirked. "First of all, some Muggles do believe in magic, second . . . well, I imagine that if we make it that far without murdering one another, we'll be able to think up some rather interesting ways to keep what we've got 'alive.'"

With a laugh, he nodded. As she disappeared back into the kitchen, he opened his mouth to speak, but the fireplace crackled to life, then.

"My apologies for intruding on your evening, Miss Granger," his mother's voice sounded through the wash of green flames. "But is Draco there with you?"

When Hermione tipped her head back into the living room once more, her chestnut eyes comically wide, Draco groaned, letting his head fall back. "I'm here, Mother."

"Oh. Oh, um, I don't mean to interrupt your evening, but your father is requesting your presence here at the manor."

Setting his head level to glare at the fireplace, he asked, "What for?"

There was some muttering from the flames at that. Hermione almost burst out laughing when it seemed like Narcissa might've said _How the bloody hell should I know?_ before her actual response of, "I'm not sure. Please just come. Good evening, Miss Granger."

"Good evening, Mrs. Malfoy."

The flames sputtered out and Draco turned his disbelieving gaze on his girlfriend. At the very least, they could both say it was obvious that Narcissa was far less opposed to their relationship than Lucius. The idea that his father was probably aware of precisely where his son was, and might've fabricated some sort of emergency simply to disrupt their evening was not out of the realm of possibility in either of their minds.

"Wanker," he said in a hushed tumble of sound.

Hermione laughed, not just because Draco had insulted Lucius, but because it was with such a _Muggle_ word. "You should go."

He curled his lip in a sneer as he stood from the sofa. "How about I come by tomorrow, around lunch time? Maybe we take little miss to the park down the street?"

She smiled, still so warmed by his whole 'test-run' idea. "Maybe," she said with a nod, though she was a little concerned about taking the baby out with Draco in public before sorting what do to about her legally.

"Okay, I'll see you tomorrow." He pulled her to him for a quick kiss and then left.

Her shoulders slumped. She hated to see him go, but now she could just curl up and sleep. Retreating back into the kitchen, she turned off the coffee pot and then headed to the bedroom.

As she eased open the door, she heard another series of yips from inside the room . . . . Just like last night. Her shoulders drooped. She hoped it was just some odd noise the girl made—perhaps her biological parents had owned a dog and, in that way infants had, the baby had picked up mimicking the sound.

Stepping over to the cradle to check if the child was sleeping restfully, her heart dropped into her stomach. The little cushion inside was empty. In a state of disbelief, she picked up the blanket. " _Elora_?!"

Wide-eyed, she spun around, darting her gaze about the room. The windows were closed, nothing was amiss, but . . . . The idea the infant had somehow gotten out of the cradle on her own was ludicrous!

"Elora?" she repeated, feeling like an idiot, because the baby couldn't very well answer her.

But then, she heard it. A little . . . _growling_ yip.

Her brows pinching upward, Hermione lowered herself slowly to her knees, the blanket still clutched in one hand. Swallowing hard, she peered beneath her bed.

"Oh, dear," she said in a barely audible whisper at the sight of a tiny canine snout topped with a pair of amber eyes peeking out at her. "Elora?"

Another yip. The pup reached for her with one paw, the same way the human baby would try to grab her face or her hair.

Sitting back, Hermione tapped her fingers against the floor, her heart ready to burst from her chest. "C'mon, Elora. C'mon out." As she spoke, she flickered her gaze to the window. From this angle, she could see the round, pale light of the full moon through her semi-sheer curtain.

So . . . not a Muggle baby, after all. A . . . a werewolf baby. She'd found in the woods. Oh, God, she'd put her foot in it, now! The parents were probably frantic with worry, not some terrible abandoners!

As she watched the pup crawl out from beneath the bed and pad over to her, playful as you please, she held in a sob. She'd not rescued this child. She'd _stolen_ her! And now, she wasn't sure how to return her, because she couldn't just go and leave her in the woods hoping her parents would return, rather than having moved on in an attempt to find their child! And there was no way werewolves would enter a Muggle area in search of her.

They probably thought their baby lost _forever_ because of her!

The only werewolf she knew of was Fenrir Greyback, and who knew where he was? Even if she managed to track him down, she imagined he'd be just as likely to try to eat the child—and then make another stab at having his way with _her_ , like he had back during the War—as he would be to help her find the parents.

Elora was moving funny, twitching her little bum, and Hermione realized what the problem was. As a fully-grown werewolf, she'd have shredded anything she was wearing, entirely, but as an infant, pup-Elora wasn't much larger than human-baby-Elora, so the poor thing's tail must be smooshed by her diaper. How horridly uncomfortable she must be!

Hurriedly lifting the pup into her arms, Hermione placed her on the bed and set to opening the onesie so she could get the diaper off. Lord, she hoped there wasn't a mess in there—she didn't fancy the idea of having to clean baby poo from Elora's fur.

As she unfastened and removed things, she tried not to berate herself too harshly. How could she have known? Even the sleep-yipping wasn't a true hint of it. Teddy was the child of a werewolf and _he_ was human. Of course, Remus had fretted during Tonks' pregnancy that his child would end up like him, so perhaps the odds were 50/50? She was sure there was nothing in the texts about baby werewolves!

She knew! She'd looked! She'd researched everything she could possibly—

"Ouch!" Hermione snatched her hand away from Elora, dropping a startled gaze on the pup.

The little thing had turned onto her back, still playful and clearly looking for belly rubs. Just a happy baby-werewolf, nipping at the nearest thing, as canine pups did when playing.

Swallowing hard, Hermione smiled, reaching her uninjured hand out to scratch gentle circles on that fuzzy little belly.

For as long as she dared, she turned her attention to the fingers of her other hand. Elora'd not just nipped at her. She'd made a gash, drawing blood across three fingers.

Bitten by a baby-werewolf.

Hermione didn't even know if there was a danger in that, or not. Letting out a shivering sigh, she returned her full attention to the pup.

Holding in a sniffle, she curled her wounded fingers loosely as she whispered, "I'll figure out how to get you back to them, I promise." Even knowing what she did now about the infant, the thought of parting with her broke the witch's heart into a million jagged bits.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

He'd dismissed that other familiar scent that kept flickering across his path every now and again as he wound through the streets the next morning, reorienting himself with his surroundings. The impact of the full moon had been jarring, especially since he was in that confined space rather than free to run the woods, like a true wolf should, inadvertently throwing him off course.

But the more he encountered this scent, the more he realized that something impossible was really going on. Draco Malfoy was here, somewhere. If not right now, than at least recently. Honestly, that was only slightly harder to believe than his own presence in the Muggle side of Britain.

He couldn't pretend he wasn't still just as worried about Frigga's safety as he'd been the night before, but the more he considered it, the more he realized her circumstances could've been much more dire. Pain in his arse this Mudblood was proving to be, her compassionate and radical views on non-human magical species were well known by the public. Even after whatever might've happened last night, he doubted very much his daughter was in any true danger from that witch.

Oh, he was still furious over this mess, but now that he'd had time to observe the situation, to realize it was a misunderstanding and not some calculated attempt on her part to wrong him, the more he was able to manage that fury.

Until he realized that those three scents—his daughter, the Mudblood, and young Malfoy—overlapped. He'd walked the same path the witch had taken with his daughter. Could the Malfoys be behind this? But why? They had no personal grudge against him, did they?

There was some unknown factor here for which he couldn't account, but he was not happy about it.

Finally, he found himself at the front steps of one building, in particular. Bloody hell, it was only up the street from where he'd spent the night! He'd been _so_ close, just as he had thought.

Swallowing down a fresh wash of anger as Malfoy's scent continued up these steps with that of the females, he made his way to the front door. As he gripped the knob and turned, he wasn't sure if he was surprised or irritated to find it locked. Of course it should be locked, Muggles were a paranoid lot.

Glancing over each shoulder, he found the walk around him deserted. Nodding, he put a little muscle into giving the knob a sharp twist, snapping the locking mechanism so the door opened easily. The grinding crunch-pop sound of the whining metal and wood was a bit louder than he'd have liked given that he was trying not to draw attention to himself, but it was hardly the level of spectacle he would've made breaking down the door, either.

Stepping into the small lobby area, he paused and took a deep breath. Fixing his gaze on the staircase, he started ascending the steps, following those three scents.

* * *

Hermione was dragged out of a fitful slumber by the hammering of a fist against her front door. Blinking her eyes open, she found little human-baby Elora snoozing on the bed beside her. Luckily, the child had not made a mess of the bed after she'd shifted back in her sleep. The knocking came again, and Hermione hurried to put a diaper on Elora without waking her—clearly shifting took a lot out of one so young, the tiny thing was snoring up a storm.

What the hell was Draco doing here so early? It had to be around ten in the morning and he wasn't due over for another two hours.

Carefully bundling Elora back into the cradle—she feared the baby might roll off the bed without her there—she rushed from the room and to the front door of her flat. God, her hastily bandaged fingers were throbbing.

The knocking started for a third time as she grasped the knob and pulled the door open. "Good Lord, Draco! Why are you making such a—?" Her words died on her lips as she found herself looking not at where Draco's eyes would be, but at the collar of a slightly-ragged shirt, framed by dark hair hanging over shoulders wide enough that she could only register them in her periphery.

Swallowing hard, she lifted her gaze higher—she'd honestly forgotten just how massive he was. "Greyback?" the name tumbled from her lips in a breathless whisper.

He appeared at a momentary loss for words. His expression pinged back and forth between barely veiled anger, and open confusion.

She'd just thought last night about trying to find him, and now here he was? On her doorstep, following a full moon . . . . With a baby-werewolf she'd accidentally stolen asleep in her bedroom. As she watched him take a good sniff of the air inside the doorway, she knew. The dark hair, the golden-olive complexion . . . .

She knew what he was about to say when he finally managed to rein in his emotions enough to speak.

"Where is my daughter?"

Hermione only gaped at him in silence for a few heartbeats, she could feel tears gathering in her eyes. The baby was his. He knew she'd taken the child. He could've attacked her the minute she opened the door and he saw that she wasn't holding his daughter and was unarmed, taken his child and left.

That he hadn't done any of that, that he'd used words, instead, showed he was capable of reason. Something all the stories she'd heard of him, all that she'd seen of him, herself, during the War, had not prepared her for.

Forcing a gulp down her throat, she somehow made the tears stay in her eyes as she said, "Asleep in the bedroom." She dropped her gaze from his and hung her head, aware the contrite gesture would speak more to him than a verbal apology, as she stepped aside to allow him in.

A wary light came into Fenrir's eyes as he understood how aware she was of the situation. But Frigga was safe, and this witch had no designs to see otherwise, that was all that mattered. Walking past her, he started across the living room toward the short corridor that led to her bedroom and the bathroom.

"I didn't know," she said abruptly, her voice small and choked sounding.

Halting mid-stride, he half-turned back in her direction. He didn't speak, however, waiting to see if she had more to offer than that.

The witch closed the door, aware the action carried some weight with him—that closing herself off with him in any measure showed that she trusted and understood that he was not there to harm her. Given their history, she was cognizant that this simple act probably spoke volumes to him.

However, she kept her gaze downcast as she shrugged. "I was in the woods hunting for herbs, and I came across a baby alone. I thought she'd been abandoned, I had no idea."

Fenrir exhaled, long and sharp, through his nostrils. "I know. If I thought anything otherwise, you'd not still be breathing."

She could only manage a nod as he turned on his heel and continued to the bedroom door. Hermione Granger knew she was many things. Overconfident, short-tempered, judgmental . . . but she was also compassionate to a fault, intelligent and insightful. Just now those three latter traits won out over all the others.

Those three traits allowed her to be humbled by her own idiocy. Oh, surely, even in hindsight, she knew she couldn't have expected herself to behave any differently upon finding a seemingly-abandoned child, but in the end, she also knew that any legal channels she'd have gone through about this would've made things far worse. Human authorities would've put the child into the system, the Ministry might've realized what she was and wanted to study her, since baby werewolves were virtually unheard of . . . and either route would've meant Fenrir Greyback potentially _never_ finding his daughter.

Allowed her to recognize that she didn't really understand the man standing in her home, at all.

As she lifted her gaze, watching his imposing figure stalled at the threshold of her bedroom doorway, she recognized that her reluctance to give up Elora had served some purpose, after all.

His steps were slow and measured as he moved into the room, beyond her line of sight.

She couldn't imagine the agony and strain her actions had put him through the last three days. Holding in a sigh, Hermione tried not to think about this being the last she'd see of the child as she walked over to hover in the doorway.

She found him standing just inside the room. Though she expected he'd have gone and immediately scooped the sleeping baby into his arms, he was instead looking about at the things in the room. The bags of diapers and baby books, toys, and clothes, bottles . . . .

"You weren't planning on just keeping her for just a few days, were you?" He looked back at her over his shoulder. "You were going to take in a child you found? Just like that?"

Elora—or whatever her real name was, now that her father was here to finally tell her, proper—stirred, then. Hermione would assume the reason was the sound of Fenrir's familiar voice being so close.

She nearly started toward the cradle on instinct, but just as fast stopped herself. The movement was not lost on him.

God, he wanted to hate her for this! He wanted to be so angry with her . . . but seeing how she genuinely cared for Frigga made that so, _so_ hard.

Ignoring his flagging temper, he crossed to the cradle and sat on the bed beside it, waiting for his daughter to full wake. "Frigga? C'mon sleepy one."

"Frigga," Hermione echoed as she watched the baby open those enormous dark-blue eyes of hers, as she listened to the series of giggles the child broke into upon seeing her father's face. Sniffling, she forced herself, once more, not to cry. "It's a lovely name."

He shook his head as he reached into the cradle, lifting Frigga and settling her on his lap. "Oh, and I suppose you called her 'hey you?'"

The witch's eyes widened as she realized the werewolf had just made a joke. "No," she said, though she couldn't help a laugh that escaped with the word. "I was calling her Elora."

A thoughtful frown curved his lips. "I's not bad, I suppose." Arching a brow at the sound of crinkling that met his ears, he tugged at the bottom of Frigga's lilac onesie. "What the hell is that, now?"

"Oh!" Hermione only now remembered then that when she'd found Frigga, she'd been in a cloth diaper. At the time, she'd not thought anything of it, as reusable baby-things had never really fallen out of favor, and were coming back into popularity. Knowing what she did now, the choice made even more sense. "Muggle diapers. You throw them away after they're soiled and grab a new one from the pack. The outer-shell keeps whatever inside the diaper so it doesn't dirty the baby's clothes."

Lifting Frigga in his hands, he turned her—much to the baby's giggling delight—inspecting her cushy little bottom. "That's actually quite clever."

Lost in the moment of calm and camaraderie, the witch thought nothing of it as she raised her bandaged fingers to cover a laugh.

His eyes immediately shot to her hand. He set Frigga back in the crib as he flared his nostrils. Sooner than Hermione could react, Fenrir stood before her. He grabbed her wrist and pulled the bandaged area toward his nose.

He knew he should've smelled the blood sooner, but with the sheer oddity of the situation, he thought perhaps his mind's need to be in control and understand what was happening around him was overriding his animal instincts and the things his senses might be trying to tell him. "She bit you?" he asked, his tone demanding as he tore at the bandages to get a better look.

She winced, swallowing hard against a new wash of pain as their removal caused friction against the gash on her fingers. "She didn't mean to! She was only playing!"

Those amber eyes of his widened as he saw the wound. This was no accidental nip. But more so, even after Frigga had bitten her—

"You're defending her?" He relinquished his hold on Hermione's wrist and backpedaled, confusion filling his face. "You've been bitten by a werewolf, and you're not . . . you're not angry with her?"

There was a strange, almost childlike demeanor to him as he asked that. Part wonder, part confusion. That he could even think she'd be angry with a child, or that she'd stop caring about her, reminded Hermione of precisely why this situation—Fenrir Greyback, in her home, with his daughter, cracking jokes and marveling over Muggle child-rearing conventions—was so very strange.

"Well, I don't suppose someone like you would be able to understand that, would you?"

His eyes narrowed lethally as he stepped closer, once more, deliberately moving to tower over her. "What could you _possibly_ mean by that?"

"Oh, I dunno, maybe I'm the one shocked by this whole thing? After the way I remember you? After the stories about you? You're a savage and a cannibal!" Where was this burst of anger coming from? Oh, right, because he was mystified that she wasn't angry with an infant!

Fenrir bit back his own anger, reminding himself that her ignorance was a product of what the Ministry wanted everyone to think of him. "Right, then. I suppose you're aware that the Dark Lord was literally starving me back then, yeah?"

She blinked, the emotion in her eyes changing with that downward sweep of her lids, confusion tempering the rage, now. "What?"

Aware this was the reaction he wanted, but unsure exactly how to proceed now that he had it, he forced a nod. "Yeah, didn't hear _that_ as part of your stories, did you? No, didn't think so."

He backpedaled, sitting on the bed beside his daughter's cradle, once more. "He had me under a charm that forbid me from disobeying him. And he wouldn't let me eat . . . not until he said, and _only_ what he said."

Hermione understood, now. The realization made her stomach churn and ice trickle down her spine. "He . . . he kept you like a prize-fighting dog?"

His brows pinched together as he guessed that was some Muggle thing. Shrugging, he offered, "I suppose. It made everyone fear me more, fear _him_ more. Made me irrational, feral . . . . Don't know when he came up with the idea, but one day he just told me I couldn't eat. Then, had to be weeks later, one of the people I'd bitten for his army died. Dark Lord told me to feast on the corpse, I couldn't disobey, but I was so hungry by then—ravenous—I didn't care to disobey. I _just_ wanted to eat something."

She felt her weight give, her body sagging sideways against the doorframe. "I never . . . never knew."

"Only he and I knew."

Hermione was surprised she hadn't fallen on the floor for the shock she was feeling over this revelation. Every time she thought she understood the depth of Voldemort's depravity during those dark times, something like this came out of the blue.

Fenrir, apparently determined to focus on more pleasant things, lifted Frigga from the cradle, once more. "Now you listen here! You know better than to nip!"

Immediately Hermione was pulled from those negative thoughts and she snapped into a standing position. "Don't take that tone with her! She's only a baby!"

"She's a werewolf," Fenrir corrected her. "Born werewolves develop their minds and instincts faster than humans. She may be little, but I've taught her better."

"Wait, so you're saying—"

"I'm saying she might've been acting playful, but she _wanted_ to bite you."

Hermione looked at the baby. Frigga was staring back at her, tiny face smooshed up like she was ready to cry. Little poot was afraid she was in trouble and was trying to get out of it with a cute expression! Oh, this was . . . . _Oh!_ "So she's understood me this entire time?"

Sensing the witch's burst of irritation, Fenrir snickered in spite of himself. "Prob'ly. Likely she understood you didn't mean her any harm. She didn't fuss when you took her in the first place, did she?"

Hermione shook her head, still in a bit of disbelief. "No. She's been an angel. Even when . . . ." She let her voice trail off, aware of what she'd said that first night to the baby. That talk of being her mother. Elora—Frigga had seemed _happy_.

"There you go."

Turning her attention to her wounded fingers, the witch said, "So then why—?"

"Instinct." He exhaled, once more arching a brow as he said in a slow, cautious way, "She wants you to be one of us."

Hermione and Fenrir stared at one another for a breathless moment as the possibility that she might become a werewolf sank in. Until the silence was broken by Frigga unleashing a happy giggle.

He scowled as he returned his attention to his daughter. "You are in _so_ much trouble."

"So, um, you probably want to go, now, I'd imagine." Hermione shrugged, waving at the things around the room. "You're welcome to whatever you want to take with you for her."

Fenrir stood, the baby in his arms as he looked about. "I should probably come back in a few weeks. Check on you, see whether or not you're turning."

The witch nodded, her gaze fastened to father and child. This was so incredibly awkward, now. All she could think about, though, was a way to delay this.

"Before you go, um, you probably haven't eaten in a while, what with looking for us, so . . . ." She shrugged. "Maybe I could at least make you something?"

Again that look that was part wonder, part confusion came into his face and she was forced to consider that he'd perhaps _never_ had a home-cooked meal before.

After a strained few seconds, he nodded, aware of his giggling daughter in his arms, trying to reach out for the witch. "Okay."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Hermione was relatively certain Fenrir was watching her as she puttered about her kitchen, throwing together some breakfast. Granted, the helpings were much larger portions than she'd usually make just for herself, but he was a werewolf, and as she'd surmised just a little while earlier, had more than likely never been treated to a home-cooked meal, so she was willing to make a bit extra. . . . Okay, a lot extra . . . but she supposed she really didn't _need_ that steak, anyway.

As she set the coffee pot, she considered asking him if he wanted some, but she thought she should wait. Brew the extra cup, and then if he didn't want some—for all she knew, his sensitive nose would tell him it was too bitter for his tastes, but at least he'd have the option—she'd simply have it herself later.

Checking the pans on the stovetop, to make sure nothing was burning, she turned to face him. He was watching her, but not completely. His attention was split between her and the bouncy chair on the table where Frigga was reaching for a fat, squishy crescent moon that hung down from the bar over the seat.

"So," she started with a shrug, unsure if this was a wise conversation to start up, but if her bite turned her, she imagined they'd be seeing a lot more of each other in the future—best to get to know the man behind the myth, now. "I'm curious. Frigga's mum? Was she like you, a werewolf, I mean? Or human?"

"Werewolf." Arching a brow at the button on the side of the bouncy seat, he pressed it. And nearly jumped out of his skin when the thing started rumbling gently and playing a tune. Frigga, on the other hand, giggled up a storm, waving her hands excitedly at the commotion.

Hermione folded her lips inward to keep in a laugh at the way the too-large man peeled himself out of his chair to fold over the table, eyeing the seat from all angles. She supposed she should've warned him about that, but then she hadn't expected him to go pressing mysterious buttons!

"It's okay, they're meant to do that. The music is to entertain her. The motion keeps her calm . . though, human babies fuss a tad more easily than wolf-pups, it seems."

With a wary glance over his shoulder at the witch, Fenrir nodded. Reclaiming his seat, he focused on the conversation. The air between them was still strained and awkward, but he did recognize that she was making the attempt to reach out to him. It might only be for Frigga's sake, but still, he couldn't remember the last time a human gave him such consideration.

Exhaling, he folded his arms over his chest and kicked back a bit in his chair, crossing his long legs at the ankles beneath the table. "You want to know about her, I'm assuming?"

Hermione sighed, waving from him to Frigga. "Not if you don't want to talk about it, but it _is_ a natural question."

He shrugged. "Nah, don't mind at all. Just not much to tell. One night, full moon, we crossed paths. That was sort of that. Didn't see her again for a while . . . then she tracked me down. I could tell by her scent that she was pregnant. I could tell the child was mine." Again, he shrugged. "But she said she wasn't ready to be a mum, asked if I wanted to raise the baby. Didn't even have to think on it, told her yes. She stayed with me about a month or two until Frigga was born, and then she left. Been me and this little bundle of trouble ever since."

The witch couldn't help but smile at the affectionate note in his voice when he called his daughter _trouble_. "Can't be easy," she said distractedly, turning to check the food again before grabbing two mugs from her cupboard. "I mean, having to leave Frigga alone when you're hunting. I mean, I assume that's what you were off doing when I found the cave?"

"You assume correctly. You _are_ a smart one."

"So my reputation says." After pouring her own cup and fixing it the way she liked, she turned to look at him again, the other cup filled, but otherwise untouched. "Do, um, d'you like coffee?"

He looked toward the mug in her hand, crinkling the bridge of his nose as he sniffed the air. "Dunno, never had it before."

"Oh." Hermione suddenly realized that it might not be a good idea to give a werewolf caffeine for the first time ever. "Well, maybe it's best you don't—"

He inadvertently cut her off as he took the mug from her hand. "But I'll give it a shot, I suppose." He set it upon the table before him and crooked a finger at it, though. "Do that thing to it, so it smells like yours."

Snickering, she nodded. Turning off the burners, she came over to the table with the cream and sugar and fixed his cup for him.

When he reached for the mug again, she placed her hand over his, the action clearly without thought as she cautioned him. "Drink it slow. It's hot, and well, caffeinated. You've probably never had caffeine before, at least not like this, so it might make you . . . energetic."

He only stared at her before dropping his gaze to her hand resting on his.

Pursing her lips, she pulled away and returned to the stove. She could definitely feel the way his gaze followed her, now, as he took his first sip of coffee.

Ignoring that she thought she felt a flush in her face over the attention—odd, given that a moment ago she had been just fine with him watching her—she set the meal onto plates and brought them to the table. She kept her eyes averted from his as she went back to retrieve utensils and her own mug.

As she settled across from him, strangely mindful of Frigga in the bouncy seat toward the wall against which the table was set, she took a sip of her coffee, trying to calm nerves that seemed threatening to fray out of nowhere. She noticed him eyeing his plate as she dug into her eggs.

"It's okay, I cooked it rare for you," she said, nodding toward the steak. "Might still be bleeding a bit."

Fenrir chuckled and shook his head. "Thanks for that."

"So, can I pick your brain about something?"

He shrugged as he lifted the slab of meat with his fork and took a bite, rather than bothering to use the knife. "I wouldn't recommend it. Brains taste terrible."

Hermione's face fell. Her fork hovered in the air, banger speared on the tines, and all.

Chewing another bitten off hunk of his steak, he met her wide-eyed gaze. After a moment of looking completely serious, he swallowed the food and then laughed. "I've never eaten brains, but you should've seen the look on your face."

Uttering a scoffing sound, she wadded up a napkin and threw it at him. " _You're_ terrible! Why would you do that?"

The werewolf shrugged, returning his gaze to the meal. "You were tense, I was trying to lighten the mood."

"Oh. Thank you." She took a few moments to get some food in her stomach before she went on. "Well, anyway, may I?"

"Sure. Wha'cha want to know?"

"I's about werewolf lineage. You remember Remus Lupin?" She held back on the desire to wince as she asked, unsure if that was a sore subject or not. She'd always suspected that there was more to Lyall Lupin's story about the night Remus had been bitten—that the elder Lupin had embellished the _actua_ l events either to make himself appear a hero, or to make werewolves seem like the monsters he already insisted they were to anyone who'd listen. But she supposed the truth behind that would wait until Fenrir was comfortable enough with her to tell her the real story, himself.

"I'd imagine you already know the answer to that," he said, his voice low and tight. Yes, definitely more to the story than she, or anyone probably, had heard.

"Okay." Hermione reached over, tugging gently at Frigga's little, bitty toes to distract herself from another round of awkward tension in the air between her and the baby's father. "Well, he had a child, before he died—well, obviously _before_ he died—and I had once heard him worrying that his child would turn out 'like him,' but he didn't. Teddy's a perfectly normal human child. Is that because his mother was human?"

Fenrir met her gaze, arching a brow before he nodded. "Mm-hmm. When one parent's human, chances are fifty-fifty. No way to know until after the baby's born what they'll be. They'll still have something in them of the wolf—be a little tougher, like their meat a little too rare, feel freer in the woods, perhaps have trouble making friends with 'normal' humans, that sort of thing. Wolf- _blooded_ , but yeah, they'd be human. Frigga, you have to understand, is an oddity. Werewolves aren't that plentiful. Female werewolves less so. So, you can imagine a child born from werewolves mating isn't common at all."

"Huh." She shifted in her chair to lean closer to Frigga as she said in a cooing tone, "You're all sorts of anomalous aren't you?"

Observing the interaction, Fenrir couldn't help breathing a snicker.

"So why aren't there many females?"

"Stronger will than the males. We've got a tougher time fighting our self-preservation instinct." He shrugged—he did that a lot, she noticed—picking at his plate while he talked. "The stigma of being what we are, the persecution, can be bloody suffocating. Most of them don't want to live that way, so they just . . . literally choose not to."

"That's why you're raising her away from everyone?" she asked, though she already knew that was only part of the reason. He wasn't exactly a welcome face in Wizarding Britain. There were still Undesirable posters bearing his likeness plastered around Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley.

He nodded. "I don't want her to hate herself for what she is."

"I can't say as I blame you. That's . . . that's also why you were so surprised when I wasn't angry with her for biting me, isn't it?"

His lips twitched side to side as he darted his gaze about the tabletop before returning his eyes to hers. "Well, yeah. Being a werewolf isn't exactly sunshine and daisies, and wizard-kind makes us out to be vile creatures. Wasn't sure how you'd react to knowing you could become, well, like _me_ . . . like us."

"First of all, it's still only a possibility. No sense in getting myself worked up over something we're not even certain on yet," she said with a shake of her head. "You'll find I'm shockingly pragmatic most times—"

"And when you're not pragmatic?"

The witch laughed. "Then I'm pretty much a ruddy basket case. No real in-between there. Anyway, second of all—"

A shrill noise interrupted their discussion and Fenrir jumped, looking about in alarm. "What the bloody hell?"

Holding in a laugh, she raised her hand in a placating gesture. "Hang on. It's just the phone. Muggle communication device."

Excusing herself, Hermione ran into the living room, picking it up after the second ring. "Hullo?"

Fenrir leaned his chair back, tipping his head around the bend in the wall to watch her. Whatever was being said to her, she suddenly whirled in his direction and pinned him with a glare.

"No, no," she said into that bizarre plastic thing she held pressed to the side of her face. "I've not heard anything or seen anyone suspicious in the building."

Fenrir's brows shot up and he winced, turning his head as he set his chair back against the floor.

"Yes, I'll be sure to keep my door locked. Thanks for the warning."

The werewolf looked to his daughter as Hermione's footfalls moved along the floor back toward them. "Oops," he said in a whisper.

Frowning, Hermione came to stand before him, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. "You _broke_ the front door?" God help her, she nearly burst out laughing at the way he turned those amber eyes up at her, like a child caught nicking sweets after bedtime.

After a moment to process the situation, however, he held up his hands. "If we're going to be pointing fingers about who did what wrong, I'll remind you that you did sort of _kidnap_ my daughter."

Color filled her face and her jaw fell. "I . . . but . . . we already talked about that. It wasn't an _intentional_ kidnapping. It was an intended _rescue_!"

He narrowed his eyes as he braced his palms on his knees, still staring up at her. Funny, he was seated and she was standing, but she was such a petite thing that she wasn't much taller than him just now. "Potato—po-tah-to. Call it what you want, I came back to find my daughter gone."

"Oh, that's a fine thing to say! What if it hadn't been me, hmm? D'you think of that?" Hermione folded her lips into a grim line as she leaned forward a bit, getting in his face. "I found her because I followed the sound of a baby crying. Maybe I was in the right place at the right time. If anyone else had heard her, some Muggle maybe, she'd have been put into a foster system and you would never have seen her again. I was where I needed to be."

"Needed to be?" Fenrir snickered at her spiking agitation. "So, what? You're saying it was fate that you found Frigga when you did?"

"Maybe it was. How else d'you explain that your daughter— _your_ daughter—just so happened to cry when I was close enough to hear her? How else d'you explain that after all this time, all the routes you must've traveled through the woods to keep yourself hidden after the War, you _just_ so happened to be passing by that close to where _I_ live?"

"So you're fated to be a werewolf, then?"

"Maybe I am!" She arched a brow as she realized what they'd both just said. "Wait, what?"

Curling one of his hands into a fist to press his knuckles against his thigh, he leaned closer, still. "You think there was some purpose behind being right where you were at that moment, that you were supposed to be there? Well, didn't that moment lead to you taking her in? And didn't _that_ lead to her biting you?"

Hermione's eyes widened.

"And wouldn't that mean that her biting you was something that was _supposed_ to happen, too?"

Pursing her lips, she shook her head. "But not—not necessarily. I mean, you said she knew what she was doing. And I think the only reason she took the chance she did was because the night first took her in, I'd said to her that maybe I could . . . ." The witch let her voice trail off, her chestnut eyes swimming for a moment.

Realizing the conversation had hit a nerve—and not in a way he was expecting—Fenrir pushed back his chair and stood. He hunched forward a bit so they were eye-level and peered into her face. "Why are you crying? What _did_ you say to her?"

Tipping her head back a little, she looked away from him as she sniffled. "I'm _not_ crying."

He made a sound of disagreement that reminded her of a dog trying to argue with their human by way of snuffling.

"Anyway, um, I'd said to her . . . ." She shrugged, the words strangely hurting more now that reality had intruded on the happy little bubble she'd had with Frigga for those three days. "I'd said to her that maybe I could be her mother."

Fenrir snapped up to his full height at that. "Oh."

Clearing her throat uncomfortably, Hermione nodded. "Yeah. That, um, that was when I'd thought, you know, that she _needed_ a parent."

"I, yeah, I figured."

She shrugged. "I mean, I didn't know at the time that she even had a father, well, you know, of course she had a father, but I _mean_ —"

"I know, yeah, I got it."

"So I can stop babbling now?"

The werewolf puffed out his cheeks and nodded. "Yeah, I think so."

An awkward silence fell between the two. If Hermione didn't know any better, she'd think Frigga was watching her and Fenrir in anticipation of what might be said next.

"So, you think she bit you so you could be her mum?"

Stated plainly like that, Hermione could only shuffle in place a bit. Just as she opened her mouth to answer, Frigga let out a bubbly, happy noise.

Pursing his lips, Fenrir turned his head to pin his daughter with a half-hearted glare. "Soon as you can walk, you're grounded, I swear."

Just as earlier that morning, Frigga pinched her face into a tiny, pudgy little pout. Those enormous eyes and the golden-yellow knit cap Hermione'd put on her combined _with_ that pudgy little pout about broke the witch's heart.

Aware of the movement as Hermione moved her head to look away, Fenrir returned his attention to the woman standing before him. "But you . . . ? You really _did_ want that, didn't you? To be her mother? I mean, all the things in that room—"

"Yes, well, plans change, obviously," she said with a shake of her head, though she still wouldn't look at him or Frigga. "That was when I thought she didn't have anyone, but she has _you_ , so what I said to her when I didn't know better shouldn't matter."

There was something in her tone. Some strained note that seemed like it couldn't be something nearly so simple as she was trying to make it sound.

He couldn't care less if she found it to forward or not—bloody humans and their weird rules about touching—as he reached out, crooking a finger beneath her chin. Turning her head, he forced her to look up at him.

"You . . . ." He searched her gaze with his own for a long, silent few heartbeats before he could continue. "You bonded with her already?"

Hermione sniffled, not bothering to fight his hold. "So? I's been just her and me for the better part of three days, aside from when my mum watched her for a bit. It's natural to form a connection."

"No. This is deeper. You bonded with her right away, didn't you? That's why you didn't want to give her up?"

"Okay, yes! All right?" She did move to pull her chin from his hand, then. "So what? I didn't want to give her up. My heart is breaking right now knowing you're going to leave here with her. I thought maybe I was going mad, but then my mum, too, fell in love with her. I knew it was _her_. There's something special about Frigga."

His brows shot upward as he nodded. "Yeah, she's a werewolf. But that's also the problem."

Hermione mirrored his expression. "I don't understand."

"We have trouble bonding with normal humans. She shouldn't have been able to bond with you. Not this fast, anyway. That should only be possible with another werewolf."

"That's why you were so confused that I was willing to take her in?"

He nodded. "I expected she was just being well behaved because she understood you were trying to help her, but this? And your mother got attached to her, too?"

Swallowing hard, Hermione nodded, aware of what he was getting at. "She watched Frigga for about four hours or so. When I came back, she told me that if I could, I should find a way to make it work, because there was something _right_ about me with Frigga."

Fenrir's eyes drifted closed and he exhaled slow through his nostrils as he shook his head.

"But if Frigga can only bond like that with another werewolf that . . . ." She blinked hard a few times. "That would have to mean we've, like you said before when I asked you about Teddy, we've got wolf blood—my mum and me—wouldn't it?"

"Pretty sure," he said with a nod. "Explains why I latched onto you like that during the War."

Her brow furrowed and she waited for him to open his eyes before she asked, "Latched onto me? What d'you mean?"

"It wasn't just what happened at the Malfoys' place." With a deep breath, he shook his head. "During the Battle of Hogwarts, you remember that spell you tagged me with when I was on that blond girl?"

Hermione remembered the scene of Fenrir tangled up with Lavender Brown vividly. "Yes," she answered, her voice tumbling out small and low.

"I was coming for you. She just got in the way."

She shook her head. She knew what he'd done during the War, knew the things Voldemort had made him do, yet, she no longer seemed able to equate that . . . _creature_ with the man standing before her. "Were you going to kill me?"

"No." He gave her a once-over. "I was going to bite you. I'm not like others of my kind, I've always been a little closer to the wolf. My bite can turn someone even when it's not the full moon."

"You wanted me to be like you. Just like Frigga does now."

Fenrir shrugged those impossibly broad shoulders of his as he nodded. "And I didn't even know why. All those people I turned for the Dark Lord, I didn't _not_ want to, but I didn't feel driven to do it. You were different. Knowing how Frigga responded to you, I think you're right. It makes sense."

In an odd way, Hermione knew it was correct. She simply _knew_ —some truth about herself that had always been on the edge of her consciousness, yet never realized. That certainly explained her natural connection with Remus. They'd become fast friends, despite their age difference, despite his wariness of people in general and her typical difficulty making friends.

"But my mother . . . she's a Muggle, born of Muggles. How in the world—?"

"Ignoring that Muggles can become werewolves?" Another shrug. Hermione imagined they could probably have a conversation based on facial expressions and movements alone if they really tried. "Muggle-borns are descended from Squibs. So, whoever the Squib was, maybe they're the child of werewolf. No way to know how far back it goes."

Her entire frame seemed to droop as she pressed her hands against her face. This was all so much to take in, even with that gut feeling that it was the truth.

Frigga babbled wildly about something just then. When Hermione turned her head to look in her direction, Frigga sputtered a happy noise and giggled.

Straightening up, Hermione dropped her arms to her sides. She could only stare at the child for a moment.

"I think she's trying to cheer you up."

Hermione tipped her head back, sniffling as she blinked rapidly a few times to keep a sudden wash of tears from breaking free. When she at last managed to speak, her voice came out thick and shivering a little. "I can't believe how much I'm going to miss her after only three days."

Fenrir shifted his weight uneasily as he looked from the near-crying witch to his daughter and back a few times. Shaking his head, he uttered in a whining half-bark, "Fuck."

The next thing Hermione knew, she was being hugged. She was so startled by the embrace that for a few seconds, she didn't move. But then, he was so warm . . . solid . . . and the steady beat of his heart was right against her ear.

Wrapping her arms loosely around his waist, she let herself cry for a bit. Only long enough to get it out of her system. God, these past few days had been an emotional roller coaster, hadn't they?

Feeling awkward again, Fenrir darted his gaze about the kitchen as the witch in his arms quieted. "I, um, I suppose you could, you know visit with Frigga from time to time. Or I could—I could bring her here to see you. I did say I'd check on you in a few weeks, anyway, right?"

"Why don't you just stay here?"

The muffled words were out of Hermione's mouth sooner than she could stop them. She lifted her head to gape up at him. finding his shocked gaze was already on her face.

"I mean, just, um, just until you can tell if I'm going to turn, or not. You know? Be easier. You wouldn't . . . wouldn't have to worry about leaving Frigga alone to go hunting." She couldn't believe she was suggesting this, but she couldn't seem to stop the thoughts—or the offer—from forming, either.

"You . . . want _us_ to stay? You can't mean that."

"It's perfectly logical, if you think about it." What wasn't perfectly logical was that they were continuing this discussion still locked in a hug. "If Frigga's bite does turn me—which for all we know might be even more likely with my blood—then I'm going to need to know all you can tell me about being a werewolf. My only real source for that was Remus, and his father taught him to hate what he was. I don't think I could live like that. I need to learn from you."

A thoughtful frown curved Fenrir's lips. "When you put it like that, it does make sense."

"I've a sofa, you could keep the cradle in the living room with you if that makes you more comfortable. But . . . ." God, Draco was going to have a fit over this. She should just let Fenrir take Frigga wherever and visit them, but she hadn't liked lying to Draco about the baby in the first place. She had to come clean with him, wanted to, in fact. But perhaps doing so with Frigga and Fenrir in her flat wasn't the best idea.

Clearing her throat, she finally pulled out of his arms. He only then seemed to notice he'd still been holding her, and dropped his arms to his sides.

"You know what, though? I, um, I should actually make some arrangements, discuss things with some people, first, so there's no confusion or anything. So, maybe you could take Frigga with you for a few hours, back to the woods for a bit or something?"

He looked to Frigga and then returned his attention to the witch. "I suppose we could . . . return at nightfall, if that's good? I mean, if you're still sure about this."

Oh, Hermione was not sure about _anything_. But she knew being parted from Frigga was going to crush her no matter when it happened.

"Yeah."

A knock came at the door, then. Frowning, Hermione looked to the clock on the wall. It was still another hour before Draco was supposed to show. "Who could that be? Probably the building manager about _your_ break-in."

"Yeah, sorry 'bout that."

"Well, you grab Frigga and go start packing up some things for her for the day, I'll go handle this." She stepped from the kitchen as he took Frigga from the bouncy seat—he'd watched Hermione working with the straps earlier and so had the basic grasp of how to unfasten them without getting himself tangled up in them—only to step right back in. "Maybe try to be a bit quiet. After he's gone I'll walk you two out, so the neighbors know you're guests of mine."

"Um, okay." Cradling Frigga easily in one arm, he brushed past Hermione and crossed the flat to duck into the bedroom.

There came another knock just as the werewolves disappeared through the doorway. Letting a sigh rattle out of her, Hermione went to answer it.

Unlocking the door and pulling it open, she immediately felt her heart drop into her stomach. "Draco?"

The grin on his face melted right off at her wide-eyed expression. "Wha's wrong?"

"Oh!" Taking a breath to try and settle her nerves—which was _not_ working at all, thanks very much—she shook her head. "Nothing, really, I just . . . could you give me a few moments? Like, I dunno, make run down to one of the shops or something and then come back?"

He furrowed his brow, pretty sure he had no idea how to process her tone or demeanor. "What?"

She held up her hand in a placating gesture. "Look, it's a bit complicated. Someone came to pick up the baby. They're in the room with her now getting her things. I just don't think it would be a good idea for them to—"

"Should I take that shaky music chair thing? She seems to like it."

Hermione could feel the color drain from her face. She'd _told_ him to keep quiet!

Draco's face pinched in question. Then a mix of alarm and anger clouded his grey eyes. "I know that voice!"

When she didn't answer, she could hear Fenrir's heavy footfalls crossing her bedroom floor toward the flat's small corridor. "Hermione?"

"Whoa, Draco, no wait!"

But suddenly Draco's wand was out and aimed towed Fenrir as the werewolf emerged from the room. With Frigga still curled in his arm.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Everything happened so fast that before Hermione was really aware of what was happening—even of her own actions—she was somehow behind Fenrir, Frigga in her arms, as she stared wide-eyed at the werewolf's back.

Draco had drawn his wand at the mere sight of Fenrir Greyback, at first unnoticing of the baby, then his brows pinched in confusion. Sooner than she could realize his bewilderment had caused him to hesitate, Hermione had backpedaled from the door, placing herself directly between the werewolves and the path of any potential spell strikes. Fenrir had reached down over her with one arm, depositing Frigga into her hold, and scooted her behind him with the other—so that the combined action appeared a singular, fluid movement.

The wizard was visibly trembling—whether from fear or rage or a mix of both, she couldn't be wholly sure which it was—by the time Hermione collected herself enough to lean to one side, peering around Fenrir's protectively outstretched arm to look at Draco.

Draco's gaze flicked from her face to Fenrir's, and back, before he managed to speak. "The _bloody_ hell is going on here?"

"Draco," she said, her voice shivering a little. The tension in the room was so thick, she thought the air pressure might just be enough to flatten her hair. "Let me explain. This is all a _massive_ misunderstanding."

"I'll say!"

"Please, don't be snarky right now. _Please_ , lower your wand and listen before something goes wrong and someone accidentally hurts the baby!"

At the reminder of the child's presence, Draco gave himself a shake. Shifting his attention to Greyback, unblinking, he lowered his wand, but kept a tight hold of it, his knuckles white with his grip.

Swallowing hard, Hermione nodded. Stepping out from around Fenrir—despite the low, whining sound of protest he made in the back of his throat—she placed herself between the two males. Frigga, who'd pressed her little face into the hollow of the witch's shoulder during the commotion, was still cradled in her arms.

"I wasn't lying just now when I told you someone came to pick up the baby . . . . Her name isn't Elora, I only said that because at the time I didn't know her name and it was the first thing that came to mind. But it's Frigga . . . Greyback. Fenrir is her father."

His eyes wide and his expression unreadable, Draco said, "What?"

Taking a chance, Hermione said, "Frigga? Can you show Draco everything's okay?"

Plucking her little face from Hermione, the baby looked up at her. Hermione gave her a smile and nodded toward Draco. With that, the adorable little thing pinned Draco with those enormous dark-blue eyes of hers.

And sputtered that bubbly giggle of hers.

His brows shot upward at the baby's response. The baby who by rights should not be able to recognize what had been said to her so clearly at her age. Shoulders slumping, he asked, "Is this the part where you tell me it's a long story?"

Hermione winced. "Yes."

Fenrir cleared his throat as he stepped around Hermione to scoop Frigga from her arms. "I think we'll just go in the other room and be . . . _not_ here for this."

Well, now that the person she was sending them out of the flat to avoid had been plunked into the middle of everything, there was little point in making them leave. Biting into her bottom lip, she waited until the werewolves had disappeared into her bedroom before returning her attention to Draco. He was pinching tiredly between his brows. "Hermione Granger," he started, her name hissing out from between clenched teeth, "what have you gotten yourself into this time?"

Her frame drooping a little, she gestured toward the sofa. "Thank you for being willing to listen. Let's sit down."

Nodding, he moved on stiff legs to follow her across the living room. He didn't loosen his grip on his wand until roughly ten minutes into what turned out to be a half hour long conversation.

Draco was disturbed, but sadly not at all surprised to learn of what the Dark Lord had forced Fenrir to do during the War, though it didn't fully stamp out his fear of the werewolf. He listened, his expression again unreadable, as Hermione explained how she'd stumbled across Frigga and what her logic had been behind not telling him the full truth.

He could hear it in her voice, see it in her eyes, when she spoke of that little girl, how much Frigga meant to her, already. Understood her rationale that reporting Greyback to the Ministry would only endanger Frigga—baby werewolf? Their Magical Maladies Research Department would have a field day at the poor infant's expense.

Still wasn't sure how he felt about any of it, but he supposed this was classic Hermione Granger. Compassionate to a fault. But then, if she weren't, well, _her_ , she certainly wouldn't have given him a chance after everything he'd put her through during their school years.

She was seated facing him, her chestnut eyes wide, her brows pinched together so tight the expression looked painful as she waited for his response.

With a sigh, he reached out, clasping one of her hands between both of his. "Hearing all of that, I can't say I'm happy you kept something so big from me, but I understand. I can't say I'd have wanted you to know the truth were I in your shoes. Not if I thought the truth might get you in trouble."

A half-grin curved her lips. She wished this could stop right here, with his patience and understanding. But she hadn't told him about her lineage, yet. Hadn't gotten to mention Frigga's bite.

"There's, um, there's more. I'm, um, I'm bonded with Frigga." She sighed, shaking her head. "It means pretty much what it sounds like. The connection between her and me is very strong, and it's causing me what, by human standards, is an abnormal amount of pain to consider being separated from her. Long story short, it's a werewolf thing. And, well . . . last night was the peak of the full moon. She shifted, and there was an accident." She held up her bandaged hand.

Draco choked out a sound of shock. Hermione's comment about her bond with Frigga being a 'werewolf-thing' didn't fully register on him. "The baby bit you?"

"Like I said," she started, she didn't feel good about mixing a lie into all this when she'd just come clean, but she couldn't tell him Frigga had bitten her on _purpose,_ " it was an accident. Anyway, whether or not I'll turn is something that will only be obvious when the next full moon peaks. Look, I'm telling you this to prepare you for the decision I've made. You're not going to like it, but I knew the moment I chose to do this that I'd have to be wholly open with you about it from the beginning. You see, I—"

"You're going to let them stay here, aren't you?"

"I know its madness on the face of it, but with the bite and Frigga—"

"No, no. I . . . ." He sighed heavily. "I'm not happy about it, but in a way, it makes sense. Greyback would know the signs. He knows what to look for, how to tell if you're going to change. How to . . . help you. God, I can't believe I just said _Greyback_ and _help_ in the same breath." Draco shook his head, letting out a snicker. "Not at all happy about it. He _will_ be on the sofa, yeah?"

Laughing in a mix of amusement and blessed relief, she slapped his shoulder. "Of course! You want to move in, too, for the month to make sure there's no funny business?"

She'd meant it as a joke, but the words seemed to hang in the air between them. Their expressions sobered as they stared at each other. Neither of them had mentioned such a step before, that it would come up as a side-effect of the entire baby-werewolf fiasco unexpectedly turned a magnifying glass on their relationship.

"I just might take you up on that," he answered, his whisper a bit breathless.

"How the bloody hell do these things work?"

Hermione snapped her attention toward her bedroom at Fenrir's disgruntled half-bellow. Meeting Draco's gaze, she couldn't help but laugh. "I should probably see what that's about. Leaving a werewolf with Muggle baby supplies is a recipe for disaster, I think."

Draco's brows shot up, imagining Fenrir Greyback covered in a cloud of baby powder. "Yes, I think it just might be."

The couple got up from the sofa and crossed the flat. Upon arriving at the bedroom door, they found Frigga giggling and turning all about and playfully scooting herself around the bed . . . diaper-less, as Fenrir sat on the floor, the package of disposable diapers in his lap. One diaper was stuck, half-open, to his sleeve, as he delicately tried to open another, apparently considering the one on his sleeve a lost cause.

"Oh, my . . ." Draco said, trying to hold a snicker.

Hermione, however was not quite so covert. She openly laughed as she stepped into the room. "You're just hopeless, you know that?"

Fenrir frowned, shaking his head as he watched her pluck the diaper from his sleeve and climb up onto the bed with the wriggly baby. "Says you. I was perfectly fine in the woods, thank you very much!"

Hermione shook her head right back, though she didn't bother to look over her shoulder at him. Instead, she focused on getting Frigga's little bum covered while she said, "Says _you!_ She prefers these to the cloth ones!"

He folded his arms across his chest. "Hmph."

Laughing, the witch sat up cradling the baby to her. "There. All better, yeah? Here." She slid off the bed to sit beside Fenrir and placed Frigga in his arms. "I do believe your father wants to have a word with you about cooperating during diaper-changes, young lady!"

"I was wrong."

Frowning, Hermione turned to look up at Draco still in the doorway. He shook his head. "I can't do this." Just like that, he disappeared from view.

"What?" She shot to her feet and hurried after him.

Catching up with him as he reached the front door, she slipped her fingers around his elbow. She forced him to turn and look at her. "Draco—?"

"I thought I could do this but I can't, okay?" He clenched his teeth, giving her an angry once-over. "I won't do this. Playing house with werewolves? No, Hermione."

Swallowing hard, she shook her head. "What? I . . . I don't . . . . What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I'm not going to stand for this, Hermione. They go or I do."

Hermione was so shocked at his declaration that by the time she even opened her mouth to respond, Draco was out the door. She'd expected him to be angry. She'd expected him to not understand.

She hadn't expected him to force her to choose between them. How had this all escalated so quickly?

"Maybe it's better if we do go."

Jumping at Fenrir's voice behind her, Hermione pivoted on her heel to face him. "What?" He wasn't holding Frigga just now, she could only assume wiggle-bum was in her cradle.

Sighing, he shook his head. "You only made the offer an hour ago, and already us being here is turning your life upside-down." Shrugging, he took a step closer. "So, we'll go. And I'll just come back with Frigga in a few weeks, you can visit with her while I check for signs of the curse taking effect."

Draco storming out like that, the idea of not seeing Frigga for weeks, hell, even the hint of disappointment in Fenrir Greyback's amber eyes, combined to make her feel like someone was trying to tear out her heart. Sniffling, she wiped helplessly as her eyes as tears welled up. "No! No, no! You can't go, too, please! I don't want to be alone. Don't make me be apart from her, please!"

Fenrir held up his hands in a placating gesture. Sweet Merlin, female wolf-bonding was a terrifyingly powerful thing! "All right, okay. We won't go but . . . oh, bollocks." A heavy, almost growling sigh rumbling out of him, he closed his arms around her. For the second time that day, he let the witch bury her face against his chest as she sobbed.

Not that he really minded, per se, but he wasn't exactly sure what to do aside from simply standing there as she got the emotional display out of her system. Strangely like he was being held hostage . . . by a petite witch who wanted nothing more than to be a mother to his daughter.

His life had become unexpectedly odd in a short period of time.

After she'd calmed, he slipped his hands over her shoulders and peeled her off of him with some reluctance. Holding her back enough that he could meet her gaze, he said, "Can you keep an eye on Frigga for a few minutes?"

Hermione only now became cognizant of her arms around his waist. She wasn't sure when she'd gripped her fingers into the fabric of his shirt over the small of his back, but she didn't feel inclined to let go just yet, either.

"Of course I'll watch her, but where are you going?"

Wincing, he extracted himself from her embrace entirely. "Don't worry about it. I promise I'll be back shortly."

She didn't trust the lack of information, she also wasn't stupid. This obviously had to do with Draco, but she knew she had no way of tracking the wizard, herself. If he was so angry, there was no telling where he'd go to blow off steam. Fenrir, on the other hand, had his canine sense of smell to lead him.

She _did_ , however, trust that Fenrir wouldn't hurt him.

"Okay," she said, agreeing again as she waved toward the door.

* * *

Draco uttered a sound of shock as a hand clamped down on his shoulder and pulled him backward around a corner. By the time he had his wand drawn—in a Muggle neighborhood, fine thing that was!—he found his back against a wall, fingers pressing into his shoulders in an iron grip as Fenrir Greyback glared down into his face. At least the corner he'd been pulled around was the mouth of an alleyway, so no witnesses to stumble across them easily.

Draco breathed out a noise that was nearly a growl as he rolled his eyes. "What the hell? Greyback, get your hands—"

"Get _your_ arse back there and make this right with her, you selfish little twat."

"I hardly think my relationship with Hermione is any of your damn business!"

A faint, sour twinge wound the air. Frowning, Fenrir tipped his head to one side as he held Draco's gaze with narrowed eyes. "You're afraid."

"What? No I'm not!"

"How daft are you? You can't hide fear from a bloody werewolf!"

Draco clamped his lips shut.

Clever little shit. Fenrir knew Malfoy was wagering on the werewolf not hurting him because of Hermione. Smirking, Fenrir leaned back a bit, shrugging but not lightening his grip in the slightest. "Okay. Don't tell me. I'll just go back, tell her I tried to reason with you to talk to her, and you ran with your tail between your legs. How's that sound?"

"Fine!" God, he hated that Greyback had him figured out. "I can't deal with how you look together."

Fenrir's brow furrowed, his look asking the question for him.

Draco gritted his teeth as he dropped his gaze to the werewolf's fingers gripped around his shoulders.

"Oh." Fenrir relinquished his hold.

Clearing his throat, Draco brushed at his clothes, trying to straighten out the wrinkles. "When she was sitting with you and the baby . . . . The three of you together, you looked like a family. You _felt_ like a family. It was just too much."

"You're such an idiot."

Draco's jaw fell slack for a moment. "You can't judge me. You don't know what this is like!"

Fenrir shook his head, folding his arms across his chest—aware his greater height and width over the wizard was even more obvious when he stood straight like this and secretly finding the difference in stature hilarious. "You're an idiot. Do you even understand this? That woman back there _loves_ you. But you know what, you're right! Who'm I to judge, yeah? I'm not the one willing to throw away someone like her because she won't turn her back on a child."

"That's . . . that's not what this is."

"Isn't it?" Fenrir didn't know if he was surprised or just dismayed by Draco's ability to delude himself. "Because her decision has nothing to do with _me_. It's about Frigga. She would give her life for my daughter, and I think that's what really threatens you. And let me tell you something else, if your reaction is typical of how humans think, then the whole lot of you are stupid. You have someone like her in your life and you're willing to walk away from her? Then maybe you deserved to be alone."

Draco frowned, something in Fenrir's tone giving away more than he thought the werewolf had meant to. "You have feelings for her." It, very distinctly, was not a question.

Once more, Fenrir shrugged, not caring to hide it. "You know nothing about werewolves. Not aside from ruddy textbook knowledge, anyway. Yeah, I do. I've literally had these feeling from the moment I met her, because that's how we work. But I'm not the creature I was back then. I'm not going to just take what I want. Whatever I feel doesn't mean squat if she doesn't reciprocate."

His words forced Draco to think back on that scene of her and Fenrir with the baby. His eyes drifted closed. "That's what I'm afraid of. And I don't think I want to be around to see it if that happens."

Fenrir ran his hands down his face. How the fuck had he ended up talking emotions with Draco Malfoy? This was a weird goddamned day. "Look, I know fuck-all about relationships, but what I do know is that by trying to force her to choose between you and Frigga, all you're doing is ensuring she doesn't see _you_ as something she wants in her life anymore."

"And wouldn't you just love that? Why are you here trying to fix a situation _you_ should be happy about?

Exhaling sharply through his nostrils, Fenrir only thought again how unbelievably thick humans were. "Because this shit isn't about me! Honestly? I'd love nothing more than to scoop up her and Frigga and run back to the woods. But I'd never do that unless I knew that was something _she_ wanted."

"So I need to be okay with this, is what you're saying? I have to be okay with this, even if I'm not?"

Sighing one final time, Fenrir shook his head. Turning on his heel and starting away, he answered over his shoulder. "You better do something, Malfoy, because if you push that woman into a corner, all you're doing is turning what I want into something she might want, too."


End file.
